Map of the Problematique
by KookieEvans
Summary: Even the darkest of souls get tired sometimes. What do you do when even your after-life sickens you? Jim central. Dark.


**Disclaimer : I don't own them, I'm just borrowing the characters.. Doesn't mean I haven't tried kidnapping Keats though ;)**

**Author's Note:**** Hey guys, I'm back already! Yep, I wrote this all in one writing session, very late last night. **

**I guess this is sort of a companion piece to "Sing For Absolution". Basically, the roles are reversed, but in very different situations. It's hard to explain, but you should get what I mean when you read it :)**

**I hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews are appreciated - well, more like loved and worshipped ;)**

* * *

Life will flash before my eyes,  
So scattered and lost, I want to touch the other side,  
And no one thinks they are to blame,  
Why can't we see that when we bleed we bleed the same?

* * *

Jim Keats stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out of Gene's office window, watching but not really seeing anything, nursing a small glass of the whiskey he had found at some point in the evening. It was late Thursday evening (or was it early Friday morning?) but he knew Gene would join him soon enough. Sleep didn't come easy when you had the weight of a thousand souls on your shoulders.

With a heavy sigh, Jim turned from the window and surveyed Gene's office. Movie posters were plastered across part of one of the walls, and Gary Cooper stared out stoically. It was a bitter reminder of the fact that the man he called his enemy was a mere boy masquerading behind a tough-guy persona. A boy who dreamt of being a sheriff to the law, just like his silver-screen hero. Jim lifted his glass and toasted the poster sarcastically.

Stepping around the bin, Jim took in the crowded notice board. White scraps of paper covered its surface with news of darts competitions and details on who looked to be the favourites of a race. But most noticeably were large newspaper cuttings detailing the reader on Sam Tyler's death. The dark haired man shook his head with exasperation. Gene had a lot to learn. For one, you should never get too attached to the people here. You simply never knew how long they would be staying. Jim was about to move on when his eyes caught sight of a small picture pinned to one corner of the board. He moved forward to see it clearer. It appeared to be a photo from a warrant card, one he recognised immediately. His eyes softened slightly.

DI Alex Drake.

"You stupid bastard, Hunt," Jim murmured softly. It was foolish to even befriend people here, never mind fall in love with them! Gene has so many weaknesses that it made Jim's job so easy - or at least it would have, if he was still going to play along with this twisted game.

He turned from the notice board angrily and eventually ended up rifling through Gene's desk, for no other reason than to sate his own curiosity.

'Curiosity killed the cat' a voice in his head chided playfully. Then again, he reasoned, he wasn't a cat, and he was already dead, so what did he have to fear?

Jim smirked at his own inane thoughts and continued sifting through paperwork and forensic reports, when he found a file which caught his eye. The small, black print proclaimed that the file was all about "New Transfers". Interested in finding out what he could about Gene's new dream team, he quickly flipped the document open, disappointed to find that each of the officers had only a few lines written about made up pasts. There wasn't even any pictures of them.

Jim's thumb brushed over one of the names accidentally and suddenly new information - true information - flashed before his eyes. Everything about each person danced through his head, muddling wildly. Literally everything about them.

"DAVID WHITE - FAVOURS PEPPERMINT TEA - WIFE CALLED ROBERTA - TICKLISH FEET - 27 YEARS OLD - STABBED TO DEATH IN 2006 -"

The file slipped through Jim's numb fingers, falling to the floor with an explosion of white as the papers billowed out roughly. His breath ripped its way out of his lungs raggedly while his hands trembled.

Just a few months ago he would have gladly killed for this. He had all the information he could possibly need to bring Hunt's team down. He knew the best way to lie, to convince each of them to join him.

So many fresh souls, just ripe for the taking.

Just as he was giving up on them.

Jim stamped down on his raging bloodlust as he remembered each of their gullible, naïve faces. They were all human beings, they all had hopes and dreams! And this was exactly why he was no longer taking them - because he had once been like them : scared, human, innocent. Because he was tired of tricking people and sending them to their eternal damnation. Because the guilt was finally catching up with him.

Which brought him back to why he was actually here. Jim crossed the room to stand over by the window once more, smoothly whipping the gun from his pocket and examining it. He couldn't stop his hand from shaking. Despite his cool exterior, his insides were going into a meltdown.

He wanted to throw the gun out of the window, and yet he wanted to clutch it to his chest for safe-keeping. He wanted to hide it far from sight, yet he wanted to flaunt it to everyone he saw. He wanted to keep his plans his own dirty little secret, yet he wanted to yell from the rooftops :

"My name's Jim Keats, and tonight I'm going to kill myself!"

All he needed now was for Gene to walk in and everything would be ready. Jim slid the gun back in to his pocket as he watched the city.

He knew what he had to do. He had to argue, fight, shout, scream - fuck it, he was desperate - beg.

He needed Gene to take his soul.

Jim was going to tell Hunt what he needed to do. Then he was going to shoot himself. Then Gene would hold him in his arms, and no matter what he had said beforehand, he would help him move on.

Jim knew this because he knew Gene. He was just a scared young man.

The Manc Lion was just a timed kitten.

And the dark-haired man was glad, because this little pussycat would see the potential for good in him. This was his second chance.

Jim Keats was going to die because he was tired of being the bad guy.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?"

Showtime. Jim sighed and stroked the gun with one finger, slowly turning to look into the light-blue eyes of the man he hated, the man he couldn't live without.

"Gene. I think we need to talk."


End file.
